You let others continue going down a path that will end disasterously, as you said beforehand, just to let them learn their lesson. After the fact, however, they seldom recognize that you were right, and you realize that it was in vain.
They wouldn't listen to me even if I gave a warning. I've watched it happen before, and have a feeling that I'll be watching those things in the future too. Like now, but this time I think I'll have to jump in. She means too much for me not to.
I say yay. This is especially true if I'm angry or upset about something, and I'll spout off some of the most vile things one can imagines. The reactions of others to such incidents are mixed; sometimes they think it's absolutely hiliarious, other times they become very disturbed and worried.
I'll readily admit they're not my greatest moments really.
It reminds me how Dostoevsky's second wife described him as a very irritable and spiteful person; and how "he could not restrain his spite" at various times.
I can relate to that all too readily.
I hate to say that when I loose my temper, the defence mechanism I use against the shame after it is.. keeping up some of he anger. One of my worst qualities really.
It's the worst when I actually scare people so bad that they'll avoid for a few days afterwards. But if they laughed I'd react even worse. The intensity of the emotion is something that's hard for others to handle,and I don't wonder why.
Somehow I have to associate the literary style (not genre) of
romanticism or
postmodern to my thinking. Kierkegaard for one is as a writer considered postmodern.
I can't remember the spesific name of the type I'm looking for here, it's in one of my books at home. But it could explain the 'darker' imagination especially when directed towards the darker sides of reality. I suppose the literary style would sound familiar to some NFs, INFJs also? It did to me, but I might be overthinking this.
Rosa Liksom (and her 'Dark Paradise') came to mind througout the thread, that discussed the imagination.. But she is more of a post modern writer:
The sun was shining behind the factory, coloring the water turquoise by the shore. A boy stood barefoot on the pier with a broom in his hands, squinting in the sunlight. On the pier there were chunks of meat being washed by small waves. The planks were sticky with blood, and white blubber floated on the edge of the shore in long strips. The boy felt small and dejected…He felt sad. All these ice-covered mountain, surrounded by water on every side, the sticky blood and stinking meat would be his fate, too. He would live only in order to lose his life.
You get into those moods where your life seems like a never ending blur and for a time you're not sure if its real or not.
I think it happens when I've lost all inspiration for something and I have to find something new to get into. Without it, I lose all structure in my everday life, and thus, it becomes meaningless.
Yes, yes and yes. And I hate it when it happens, the finding something new part is even harder then.
About the love of intensive music.. Anyone else love Disturbed? Some of the lyrics just strike me somehow, besides the music itself.
